


Transplanted

by bananabun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, BAMF Stiles, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Character death is only temporary, Don't be sad, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Peter and Stiles slightly closer in age, Sane Peter Hale, Time Travel, Top Peter Hale, Young Peter Hale, because tbh that's my favorite, changed timeline/ages, grad student peter hale, or more like in the abstract/not really part of the main plot, originally set in 2015, so the 13 years in past is from 2015, some canon events in Stiles' past has been moved up/down timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-02-01 17:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12709359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananabun/pseuds/bananabun
Summary: In the wake of Scott’s death, Stiles makes a rash decision to travel back in time in an attempt to save his best friend. Instead, he finds himself transported thirteen years into the past. Now faced with the reality that he can never return to his life in the future, Stiles is forced to solve the problem from 2002. To save Scott – to save all his friends who die in the future – Stiles has to save the people who can keep Beacon Hills supernaturally stable: the Hales.Except Stiles finds himself doing so with none other than murderous psychopath Peter Hale. Except he’s not murderous, or psychopathic, he’s… surprisingly normal. And smart. And attractive. And interested in him?Steter AU! Join me in the time travel fun.





	1. Jump

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my gosh! Hi! Hello! Welcome to my most prized baby!
> 
> So, I really hope you enjoy this. I've written nearly 10,000 words of this story at this moment and I really hope to finish it! Sadly, 10,000 words hasn't been much of a dent *sobs*.
> 
> This story is inspired by one of my favorite tv shows, Outlander, as many of my fics/ideas are. I just love time travel, guys!
> 
> Just a disclaimer of sorts: bare with me, because I just jump into the story. I didn't want to spend too much time dwelling on what exact events lead up to this story, so I left it for you to fill in with your imagination. 
> 
> That being said, there are some things that I haven't locked down for this story. So, honestly, I might throw in a few of my favorite relationship tropes later on in the story. Also, look forward to smut in the future! I generally don't write stories without it.

Stiles wakes up violently, screaming as he feels the last vestiges of the pain of what he did. He keeps screaming because he can’t believe what he’s done. He’d made the decision on the fly, and under duress to boot, so he guesses he couldn’t blame himself for being irrational. But he should, he thinks, he really, really should.

 

A sob wracks through his body and he cradles his head in his hands, rocking his body to and fro. He left them behind. Scott was dead, he thinks to himself-- as if saying he was justified in what he did, like how was he supposed to live in a world without his brother? But Lydia, she was still there and he just left her. Left her alone because he _couldn’t handle_ _it._ God, he was weak. He took the first out he could think of.

 

In the aftermath of Scott’s death, things were pretty dark. With Stiles’ new take to magic, he spent nearly every hour after his brother was gone finding ways to bring him back. That was impossible, he knew deep down, but he still scoured every occult book, searched incessantly on the internet, even begged Deaton to tell him something. But there was nothing. He did come across another answer, though.

 

And it was time travel.

 

He wasn’t even himself when he threw that spell together; a shell of himself. He didn’t have his wits about him to stop. He just… did it. Thought it was the only answer he’d be able to live with.

 

God, he was wrong. He regrets it now, regrets it all. Something in the journey through time must have jolted his mind back into the right place, because he sees so _stupidly_ clear now what he really did. He was so focused on getting back what he lost, that in his haste he made it so he lost everything he had. You can’t ever go back with time travel spells, there’s no reversal possible. He’ll never see his family and friends again.

 

Sobs take over his body as he digs his fingernails into his arms. He wants nothing more than to roll over and sleep away the rest of his life here. But he’s stuck. And it’s cold, and he made his bed and now he has to lie in it. With new determination, he pulls himself up and wipes the tears away. He’ll never see the friends he knows again, but he can do something to make this world better for them. He might even be able to prevent their deaths. Fuck, he’s at least going to try.

 

Stiles stands and takes in his surroundings-- he’s been transported right to the edge of the preserve, which he figures is just as well. If he had been transported to the same exact place where he’d performed the spell, he’d probably be arrested for breaking and entering a deputy’s home. Well, probably a deputy, depending on how far back he’s traveled.

 

Hoping that he doesn’t look too much like an out of place wreck, he emerges from the line of trees. It’s just reaching night, he realizes once he’s out from the darkness of the forest. He checks his pocket to see what he’s got, his clothes and seemingly everything he had on him having traveled with him.

 

He pulls out a twenty dollar bill, a five, two ones, his debit card-- which is completely useless-- and his phone-- also completely useless. So, pretty much twenty seven dollars to his name. And nowhere to stay for the night. Great.

 

Stiles starts walking, biting his nail as he thinks of places to sleep. There’s the abandoned subway station Derek hid in with the betas, but that was always a particular grade of Derek man-pain. The loft, maybe? It seems logical, so Stiles sets his mind to it and heads for the loft, hoping that he’ll be able to squat there for a while.

 

It takes him forever to get there, nearly forty five minutes of walking, especially since he has to keep to the shadows as it gets darker. Beacon hills is reasonably sized, but it’s easy for police to spot outsiders. Better safe than sorry.

 

There’s no activity around the loft as he walks up, which Stiles takes as a good sign. He still keeps alert, however, as he figures out a way in. The usual entrance is locked-- something Derek must have dispensed of easily in their time with a flick of his supernatural wrist, but something Stiles can’t change without bolt-cutters. He instead turns to the fire escape, something he decides may even be better, and more stealthy, as he makes his way up.

 

The loft is deserted when he finally enters through a window, but he still runs the perimeter and checks every nook and cranny to be extra careful. Everything checks out, and it seems Stiles has found his base of operations. He still sets up a trigger ward, one that will notify him by sense when someone enters or hovers around the loft.

 

When it seems like there’s nothing left to do but wait for the next day to start, Stiles sits down in the middle of the loft. He lays out his things in a line; the twenty, the five, and the two ones, his debit card and his phone. Staring at them, trying to figure out how he’ll use them, he really curses his luck. He almost always carries mountain ash around in his pocket, sometimes wolfsbane, but this just happens to be the time where he’s not. It could’ve come in handy here.

 

Staring at the phone and the debit card, he decides to hide them away somewhere in the loft. He’d wanted to destroy them for a moment, thinking they could give away where he comes from, but then decides against it just for that reason. If he ever needs to prove himself truthful, these could be vital in ensuring that. He goes up the metal staircase to the second floor and finds a loose floorboard, placing them underneath for safe keeping.

 

When he comes back down, he stares at the twenty-seven dollars and tries to figure out how to spend it. Food is the obvious, necessary answer, but looking at the cold, open space around him, he really considers a pillow and blanket, too. He bites his lip. Maybe he’ll peruse the store tomorrow, figure out what works. Hopefully the cost of living will be lower in this time period.

 

He finds a small little sectioned off corner on the east side of the building and hunkers down against the wall for the night. He thinks he’ll never fall asleep as he sits there, slowly warming up the space with his body heat. His mind wanders to before he sent himself here. If he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t even remember much of it. After Scott died, he just… kind of lost it.

 

A couple tears spill over, and Stiles realizes belatedly that he’s crying. He wipes them away with fervor, sniffling his nose and wiping that, too. That’s all gone now, Stiles thinks. He nearly barks out a laugh, though, as the next thought hits him, because it’s not _gone_. All that-- all his friends, his dad, everything he went through with them-- it just hasn’t happened yet. Doesn’t even exist. Scott is still alive and breathing here, in this time. And sure, it may not be his Scott but... it kind of is, only before the whole werewolf thing. And he can stay alive. Stiles just has to fix it. He has to fix it all.

 

He must be more exhausted from the time travel than he thought, because it’s not long before his eyes droop, and he lets himself go.

 

• • •

 

Stiles can’t stay sleeping in that position for long, and he blinks himself awake just as the sun is rising. It flits through the loft, casting the wide, empty space in beautiful morning sunlight. Stiles takes a moment to appreciate the spot he’s acquired, holed up in the loft, and makes a point to ignore how being here reminds him of the pack.

 

He makes fast work of getting up and getting ready, though his body does protest a bit from sleeping upright against cold brick. He’s got a crick in his neck that’s bothering him, and he keeps trying to rub it out to no avail. The twenty-seven dollars are still where he left them on the middle of the floor, and he swoops it up and pockets it. He peeks out the window to make sure it’s clear before making his descent down the fire escape.

 

His first stop is Fred Meyer. At first, he was hesitant to go there-- it’s the only one-stop-shop style store in Beacon Hills, and everyone goes there. But after thinking about it a minute, he reminds himself that he’s in the past, and no one should recognize him. He just has to figure out what time in the past he’s arrived in.

 

He walks through the sliding doors of the gardening and home-improvement entrance and heads straight for the little newspaper stand by the second set of doors. He scans the top newspaper, not even bothering to pick it up as he finds the date. It’s printed at the top; June 3rd, 2002.

 

Which, damn. Thirteen years? There was no way of knowing in what year he would land, but magic has a funny way about it. There must be something significant about this year.

 

Stiles does the math; he’s six years old in this time. He’s probably just befriended Scott. He leaves the newspaper with the date and enters the store, his mind running calculations of where all his friends might be right now. He thinks he was aware of Lydia at age six, but he’s not quite sure. Allison’s definitely not here yet. He wonders if she’ll ever even come if he manages to change things. Derek’s about twenty-seven, maybe twenty-eight back in his time. That means he’s fifteen, maybe sixteen? Stiles’ dad is definitely still a deputy. His mom--

 

Stiles stops in the middle of the aisle. June, 2002… His mom dies in a month. He clutches at his chest, his heart seeming to burn out of it. She’s already… _fuck._ He shakes his head, takes a calming breath. It honestly kind of scares him how blank he can make himself lately, because he does it right then. His mom is already dead, he knows it. He has to do his best to stay away from her.

 

He has to blink the tears from his eyes as he keeps walking in the store. He grabs a basket as he goes to keep his hands busy.

 

He loads his cart up with top ramen, too afraid to buy anything more expensive. He stares longingly as he passes by the aisle of blankets. He walks through the aisle of clothes and checks the tags. They’re all too expensive, he’s not even sure he’d have enough for one. He decides to stop by the thrift store.

 

He adds a cheap deodorant, a bar of soap, a toothbrush and toothpaste. When he’s decided he’ll come back for more another time, he heads for the self checkout. Only, it’s not there-- it hasn’t been implemented yet. Groaning, he gets in line at the express lane. When he gets to the front, he blanches. Because standing there, looking at him expectantly, is Melissa McCall.

 

“Uhh…” Stiles completely blanks as he stares at her. Sure, he didn’t think he’d never see anyone he knows, but… so soon?

 

Melissa just looks at him curiously, smiling. “How are you today?” she asks, already ringing up his ramen and toiletries. Stiles looks at her a moment, realizing that she doesn’t recognize him. Well, he supposes it makes sense-- he’s a grown up, no one in their right mind would connect six year old Stiles to nineteen year old Stiles. He’s just a stranger to her.

 

Honestly, it shocks him. No matter how he figured it would be, he’s still not prepared to see her stare right at him and not even recognize him. It actually makes his heart sink a bit. He really is alone here.

 

Melissa raises her eyebrows at him, smiling in amusement as she waits for Stiles to answer.

 

“Good!” he bursts out, rubbing the crick in his neck in embarrassment. “I’m, uh, good. And you?”

 

She gives him a sly smile. “Good, thank you. That’ll be 7.58.” Stiles hands her the twenty, eyes trailing her as she makes his change. They exchange goodbyes, Stiles pockets his change and grabs his bag of stuff. He gives her one last smile as he walks away, eyes lingering on her still. She’s already turned to the next person in line; he really is just another stranger to her. It’s fucking weird.

 

He chews his nails as he thinks about it on his way out. She must still be in school to become a nurse. He doesn’t recall her ever working at the Fred Meyer, but it fits the timeline if he thinks about it.

 

He’s not sure where to go next, so he heads for the small, main street hub of Beacon Hills. It looks different. Stores he’s never seen, and stores he know for years not yet in the strip. He heads into a little mom and pop stationery store and picks up a pocket sized notebook and pen for five bucks, figures he could keep track of things in it. He wanders a bit, until he happily comes upon the familiar corner coffee shop. It looks a bit dated, and the patio furniture is different, but Stiles doesn’t mind a bit as he sits down in one of the metal chairs in the outdoor seating. He sets his shopping bag on the ground next to his feet.

 

He pulls out the little notebook, opening to the first page and uncapping the pen. Stiles starts off by writing down what he needs to do: stop his friends from dying in the future. But, how exactly does he do that? He taps his pen against the page, thinking.

 

Maybe prevent Scott from being turned. It might keep him out of trouble that way, blissfully unaware of the supernatural and all the dangers around it. But, Stiles thinks, if Scott doesn’t become a werewolf, the pack probably won’t become what it is-- what it will become. And Beacon Hills definitely won’t be as safe without the full pack protecting it. Stiles chews his lip.

 

No, changing Scott’s fate isn’t the answer. He needs to make sure that Beacon Hills doesn’t become the supernatural beacon he knows it will. He chews on the end of the pen. Things really started going to shit when Peter killed Laura Hale and bit Scott, ‘cause he was batshit crazy after what happened--

 

Stiles pulls the pen from between his lips. The Hale fire.

 

It makes sense. Kind of daunting, but definitely logical. The Hale pack was supposedly sturdy, at least from what Derek has opened up about over the years. If the Hale pack was still there, thriving and strong during his time, would things have gone the same? If Stiles were to bet on it, he’d bet not.

 

His heart thumps in his chest, his stomach churning as he realizes what he has to do. He has to stop the Hale fire, somehow. He gulps. He has no idea how he’s going to do that, but he jots it down in his notebook anyway.

 

He sits back in his chair then, settling to take in the town around him. He realizes as he watches people enter and leave the coffee shop that he doesn’t even know what day of the week it is. He doesn’t really see a lot of young people out, so maybe it’s a school day. He goes back to chewing his lip, sighing. He’s got a mission now, but he’s already exhausted. He doesn’t even know what meaning his life has aside from this single prerogative. What will he do after? Move somewhere else and live another person’s life? It’s a hard pill to swallow.

 

Stiles looks into the coffee shop. He wishes he could get a coffee, he can already feel his focus waning.

 

He leans his weight on the table, cradling the back of his head with an exasperated groan. He sighs, ruffling the hair at his nape and letting his hands slide down to rub at his neck. The crick is still there, and he makes a soft sound in his throat as his hand works it.

 

“You look like you need a latte,”

 

Stiles freezes. Are they talking to him? He emerges from his hands, looking up to see a man standing next to his table, holding two coffees. Stiles blushes as he stares at the two cups in the guy’s hands. Is one of them meant for him?

 

“Tired?” the man asks, and Stiles finally looks at his face. He looks young, definitely in his twenties. Dark, ash brown hair, couple inches long with a curl to it and styled to look as if he just rolled out of bed. He has a long, defined chin, giving his jaw and lower cheeks a chiseled look, and oddly enough, big ears that stick out like wings on either side of his head.

 

Stiles looks into his blue eyes and… furrows his brow. The man looks incredibly familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it.

 

“Um, yeah…” he says after a moment. The man smiles down at him, seeming a bit hopeful and a bit predatory at the same time. Forget that he looks familiar, is he actually hitting on Stiles? Stiles can feel the color return to his cheeks stronger than before. He wasn’t expecting this. “Um,” he starts again.

 

“For you, if you’d like,” the man says, his voice having a sugary lilt to it that once again bothers Stiles with how much it reminds him of _something_. But the coffee is set right in front of him and he can smell it if he tries hard enough. No one can blame him for choosing the coffee over trying to solve the annoying deja vu, okay? No one.

 

He wraps his palm around it, and it’s so blissfully warm on his skin that he groans.

 

“You actually have no idea how much I need this,” he says as he raises it to his lips, taking a sip. It’s scalding, but he doesn’t care. He eyes the man from above the rim of the cup. “Thanks.” he adds, quieter, offering a small smile. It’s returned with a wider one from the man.

 

“I’m glad I could help,” he says. “May I sit?”

 

Stiles shrugs, but nods to the chair in front of him. He sets his coffee on the table as the stranger sits across from him, sliding his notebook from view and into his pocket. He finds the man’s eyes on him when he looks back up.

 

“I haven’t seen you around town before.” the man says.

 

“Oh, yeah, I’m, uh… just passing through, I guess. Just got here.” Lie. Stiles takes another gulp so he doesn’t have to elaborate. He watches the man play with the sleeve of his cup, yet to take a drink. He glances up at the man’s eyes and sees a brow cocked. Man, what is it with this guy that he can’t put his finger on? He looks back down to his coffee. “You, uh, actually bought this for me?”

 

“Well, uh,” The man seems to be embarrassed now, hand rubbing over his mouth in a sheepish manner. “I actually got it for my niece, but you seemed like you needed it more.” He shrugs.

 

Stiles huffs. “Tell her I’m sorry I drank her coffee.” That earns a chuckle from the man.

 

“She’ll live.”

 

The man takes a sip of his own coffee finally, eyes pleasantly placed on Stiles. He says nothing more as the two sit. Stiles grows a bit uneasy as time moves on.

 

“Well, uh, listen - thanks for the coffee, but I better go.” He’s already standing up, coffee in hand.

 

“Wait. I never learned your name,” the man says. Stiles, naturally, blanks - mouth trying to form words but nothing coming out. He can’t very well say his real name, that’s--

 

“Maybe if I see you again,” he blurts out. “I’ll tell you. Otherwise..” He shrugs apologetically, pushing back his chair with his legs.

 

“Well, I hope to see you again. I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Hale.” the man says, and -

 

Well, Stiles’ whole body just reacts. He flinches, his eyes going wide and frantic as the realization hits him, and he tries to launch himself away from the man before him. But the metal patio chair is still behind his knees, and his grocery bag gets tangled up in his feet as he tries to balance himself, and he just goes down. He manages to knock over the chair, himself following in a heap of flailing limbs. He notices the man - hell, fucking Peter Hale - standing up in concern and heading for him. Which sort of launches Stiles into another frantic flail, which ends with him braining himself on the pavement and subsequently passing out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oo, kind of an abrupt cliff hanger. Sorry 'bout that. 
> 
> Sorry if there's any grammatical errors, etc! Otherwise, let me know what you think? 
> 
> Scheduled posting isn't something realistic for me, unfortunately. Busy college student and all that.  
> I'll share what I have already over the next couple weeks, and everything I write up after that. 
> 
> Also, here is the images of Ian Bohen that inspired this fic:
> 
> http://media.hollywood.com/images/656x1000/6278729.jpg  
> http://www.raysdvds.org/headshots/cast/Ian%20Bohen.jpg


	2. Pause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stills wakes up in the hospital with his secret spilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, another 4000 words. I tried to cut it short but it just didn't seem right?? I hope y'all like long reads.
> 
> Oh my gosh, I would just like to say – thank you everyone for your lovely comments! Literally floored over here. You all were very sweet and brought up super valid points. In light of some of those, there are a few things I'd like to mention:
> 
> \- If it's not already clear, Stiles isn't going back to the future. Shit's irreversible.  
> \- The Hale family isn't going to be as big as it's implied to be in the show. Simply because I don't want to overcomplicate my story. I include: Cora, Laura, Derek, Peter, Talia, and her husband who I've named Mark. No other siblings!  
> – No Malia because in this world, Peter is not married (?) with children (?) because I wanted him young and single.  
> – On the same note, I don't remember a lot of facts from the TV show since I stopped watching seasons ago. Some details will be vague! So just bare with me. 
> 
> >> I intended to get this chapter up a few days ago, but of course I stumbled upon a new idea *throws hands up in frustration*

Beeping. There’s so much… beeping.

 

Stiles opens his eyes slowly. His head hurts, he can feel it pounding in tandem with his heartbeat. He groans, rolling his head to the side and spots a man in a chair. It takes him a moment to focus, but when he does, his fears are affirmed. It’s Peter, sitting in what seems to be his hospital room, holding his notebook. Stiles groans, squeezing his eyes shut.

 

_ Fuck. _ Did they come here in an ambulance?

 

“You’re awake.” Peter says. His voice is missing that flirty tone from earlier, now cold and dark. Almost like the Peter from his future.

 

“And you’re Peter Hale.”

 

He hears Peter rise quickly and make his way over to the hospital bed. He jerks his eyes open when he feels his notebook slammed into his chest with force.

 

“Ouch! Injured person here,” he scowls. Peter only smiles.

 

“Mind telling me why you have ‘stop Hale fire’ written in your book?”

 

“Of course you wouldn’t respect my privacy, what did I expect from Peter Hale?” Stiles mumbles as he grips his notebook with his right hand and rubs his temple with his left. He scans the hospital room, eyes finding his clothes piled up on a spare chair along with his shopping bag. “We need to leave.”

 

Stiles groans as he manages to get up from the bed, making his way to his clothes. He sighs at their dour coffee-stained state. 

 

“Leave?” Peter scoffs. “Are you delirious? I’m not letting you leave. You need to answer my question.”

 

Stiles, who’s managed to already slip his pants on – under his hospital gown, mind you – turns to Peter.

 

“Have they taken my blood yet?” he asks in lieu of acknowledging Peter’s statement.. He discards the hospital gown quickly and throws on his shirt. 

 

“What.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. This is not how he planned his day going. He checks his limbs for needle marks instead, thankfully seeing none. “Good. We wouldn’t want them coming up with six year old me in the system.” Stiles throws on his hoodie and stuffs the toiletries in the pockets. He can feel adrenaline thrumming through him already. It’s time to go.

 

But before he can make his way to the door, Peter steps into his path. 

 

“You’re a fool if you think I’m letting you leave.”

 

“Peter,” Stiles sighs, irritation beginning to boil under his skin.

 

“You’re a threat to my family. Answer my question; why do you have that written in your book?”

 

“If we don’t leave now, Peter, so help me God, your family  _ will _ die because  _ I _ won’t be there to save them. Being here is already too much of a risk. I’ll answer your damn question once we  _ get out _ .” There’s tense silence as Peter doesn’t move. “You know I’m not lying. Did you even read what else I wrote? Saving your family saves mine.”

 

“Your future friends?” Peter asks, tone flat.

 

“‘Friends in the future’ – there’s a difference.” Stiles waves his hand in the air, dismissing the tangent. “That doesn’t matter. Right now, we need to get out of here.”

 

Peter seems to be debating in his head, his brow turned down. Stiles begins to sweat as the silence stretches.

 

“Peter.” He prods, dragging out the vowels. This time the nerves evident in his voice; his stomach turns over as he thinks of Scott, thinks of not being able to do the one thing he’s here to do. 

 

Peter appears to soften for a moment, but only just. “Fine. But you’re going to give me my answer.”

 

Stiles releases his breath. “Yeah, totally, absolutely. Get me out of here and I’ll tell you everything. Lead the way, and I’ll totally spill my guts for you. Figuratively, of course, not literally–”

 

Peter rolls his eyes, and turns his back on Stiles before he finishes speaking. “Follow me.”

 

Stiles heaves a big sigh in relief, and follows.

 

***

 

Peter leads him towards the back of the hospital and into a service elevator. The ride down the couple flights is excruciatingly long for Stiles and he shakes his leg incessantly. He knows Peter can hear if anyone is coming, but he’s still worried.

 

“Stop moving.” Peter groans. Stiles blinks, looks up at him. “You’re irritating me.”

 

Stiles shrugs, smirking. “Sorry dude, ADHD. Can’t really help it.”

 

Once at the bottom floor, Peter leads him through a maze of hallways by a firm grip on his bicep. Stiles rolls his eyes; he’s used to being manhandled by werewolves, sure, but that doesn’t mean he appreciates it.

 

He’s lead through the hospital without anyone so much as turning their head at them. Compared to the Beacon Hills he knows, everyone in the past is quite trusting of the surroundings around them. On the other hand, it makes slipping away into the night a lot easier. 

 

After a few more turns, an exit finally comes into view. A beat later, and they’re out in the parking lot. 

 

“Where’s your car?” Stiles asks, not knowing what he’s looking for but his eyes still scanning for a familiar vehicle. He almost expects to find the camaro, which is a laugh.

 

“Over here,” Peter says, tugging Stiles along as he sets a brisk pace. When they finally stop, it’s at a black Honda Civic coupe, back spoiler and all. If Stiles is being honest, it’s a bit too juvenile for Peter Hale. Well, at least the psychopath creeper Peter from the future that he knows.

 

He brings Stiles over to the passenger side door and hovers with a threatening aura until Stiles hops inside. A moment later, Peter’s in the driver’s seat, buckled with his hand on the stick shift. He puts it into reverse and squeals out of the parking lot.

 

The car ride away from the hospital is tense– silent and tense, and Stiles is biting his lip wondering how exactly his situation completely unraveled in less than a day. Stiles knows an interrogation is coming and he really doesn’t want to overthink what he should and shouldn’t say. Really, he thinks, what’s the point? Maybe being open and honest about everything is the best way to go about this. 

 

He looks at Peter. The man is stiff, eyes hard and focused on the road ahead of him. But he’s so  _ young _ , Stiles thinks. Eerily young. His jaw seems skinnier than what Stiles remembers of the Peter from the future. But, his shoulders and neck are a solid few inches thinner in muscle, so it could be an illusion.

 

“Are you going to stare for this entire drive?” Peter growls. Of course he knew that Stiles was staring.

 

“Oh,” Stiles clears his throat, but doesn’t look away. “Sorry. Just. How old are you?”

 

Peter’s eyebrows come together in a frown. He looks to Stiles briefly with a look in his eyes that says he thinks Stiles is the weirdest person he’s met. He’s not too terribly off, if Stiles is being honest with himself. “I’m 24.” he says.

 

“Huh.” is all Stiles says back.

 

Peter takes a left at the Clinton Street intersection turning into the Brookstone neighborhood. Or, well, where the Brookstone neighborhood will be. Currently, it appears to be a couple acres of grassy land. This part of town isn’t developed yet. There is no coffee shop on the corner of the intersection, no gas station either. Stiles frowns a bit, not knowing if Peter is trying to kill him or threaten his life. He hopes neither.

 

They finally come to a stop a few blocks in, Peter killing the engine and getting out of the car. Stiles sighs as he sits in the passenger seat for a bit longer, before saying fuck it and getting out as well.

 

“Let’s start with who the fuck are you?” Peter says almost immediately, like he’s been holding back the demand for miles.

 

“My name is Stiles.” Stiles replies. He sticks his hands in his pockets. The sun has hidden behind the clouds and it’s slowly creeping towards dusk. Peter seems to narrow his eyes at him.

 

“Why are you in Beacon Hills?”

 

Stiles lets out a breath. His best friend is dead? He’s an idiot? There’s nowhere else for him in the world? “That’s a complicated story,” he finally mumbles, biting his lip. Peter just raises an unamused brow at him. Which, of course, makes him roll his eyes. He’s going to sound batshit crazy, but fine, he’ll get the full story.

 

“Ha. Okay, just do me a favor and listen to my heartbeat, dude.”

 

“Sure.” Peter says, voice low. 

 

“Try not to look too murderous,” Stiles mumbles. “Believe it or not, I actually grew up here. I’ve lived here all my life. And it was totally normal, too. Until my best friend, Scott, was bitten by a crazy psychotic alpha during our sophomore year of high school.”

 

“What the hell?” Peter mutters, looking at him with scepticism. 

 

“Yeah, imagine how we felt. We didn’t know what the fuck was going on, and this crazy alpha was killing people around town and we got sucked into this whole other world. Your world, right, where werewolves, druids, witches, and a bunch of other random creatures exist in secrecy.”

 

“Wait, if this happened in Beacon Hills, why doesn’t my family know? Why don’t I know about an alpha on the loose biting and killing people?”

 

Stiles rubs the back of his neck. “Fuck, I’m doing this all wrong,” he groans. “Okay, listen to my heartbeat. You don’t know about this because it hasn’t happened yet – won’t happen, if I can help it. This all happens in the future, where I came from. Beacon Hills is not a fun place ten years from now.”

 

There’s only silence as Peter looks at him with his eyebrows raised. 

 

“My heartbeat, Peter.” he repeats.

 

“I remember.” Peter replies, looking at Stiles like he’s an idiot. “And you could just  _ believe _ this is the truth.”

 

Which, of course, makes Stiles groan. “You’d think being a werewolf would make you more open to concepts like this.”

 

“Concepts like time travel? This isn’t Harry Potter.” Peter has his arms crossed now, and he’s so far from believing, Stiles realizes. And really, Harry Potter? That’s the time travel reference Peter chooses?

 

Stiles rolls his eyes again. “You know, I was starting to think you might be different in the past, but it’s clear you’re just as much an asshole. What a surprise.” Stiles clasps his hands together in front of his chest and starts to contort them in a series of deft movements. A second later, his hands begin glowing. Before Peter can react, Stiles thrusts both glowing hands at the other man and the wolf is pushed back by an invisible force. If Peter wanted Harry Potter, he got Stupefy; the man falls in a heap to the ground and is momentarily stunned.

 

Stiles releases a breath as all the rage leaves his body with the force of his magic. Maybe it was a dumb thing to do, but he’s not sure he cares. Peter recovers quickly from the blow and is on his feet again in a matter of seconds. His eyes flash beta gold as he growls at Stiles. He stalks for Stiles, comes right up into his space, but the younger man just holds his glowing hands up in warning; if Peter wants to fight, he’s easily matched by Stiles. Peter hesitates at the show of magic, looking like he wants nothing better than to get Stiles back but is doing his best to reign in the impulse reaction.

 

Peter stands before Stiles, nearly chest to chest, as his growling dies down and his eyes return to his normal blue. “As you can see, I have magic.” Stiles says as he stares up into Peter’s eyes, challenging him. “Deaton gave me the option to train after about a year of fighting for my life as a puny human. Let me tell you, the big bads really liked to use me as bait. It was not fun.” 

 

“Who are you?” Peter asks again. Stiles sighs.

 

“I told you. My name is Stiles and I’m from the bleak future. Listen, why don’t you take me to your sister. She’s your alpha, right? The cat’s out of the bag and I should be speaking to her.”

 

Peter seems to hesitate. The first look of uncertainty graces his face, followed by suspicion. “How do I know you aren’t going to hurt us?” 

 

Stiles takes a step back from Peter. He puts his hands back in his pockets in an effort to appear less threatening. “Because I haven’t lied to you yet – and don’t try to refute that, we both know I haven’t. And because your family’s survival means my friends get to live in the future. It means a lot of people I love get to live. I have my own stake in this.”

 

Peter stares at him, a look of complete disbelief on his face. He shakes his head, curses under his breath and swiftly turns on his heel. Stiles watches him hop back into the driver’s seat, assuming that Peter is leaving him stranded in these fields to probably die of hypothermia. After a moment, though, he’s startled by a honk. 

 

“Are you coming or not?” Peter yells at him. Stiles blinks.

 

“Yes!” he calls quickly, running to the car and getting in. Peter takes off and they’re on the road again, this time to somewhere a bit more familiar. The Hale house. 

  
  
  


Stiles can’t sit in silence for long. “Sorry I, you know, did the magic thing on you earlier,” Stiles says after a while. Peter only hums, and Stiles doesn’t really know how to decipher that. “Unfortunately, it’s something I’ve learned to do in certain situations. Werewolves can be very headstrong.” He gives a humorless laugh – especially Scott.

 

There’s still no answer from Peter, and Stiles doesn’t want to think about the creeping feeling of guilt. This younger Peter is clearly different than the one Stiles knew, but he’s still  _ Peter _ . 

 

It’s not long before Peter is pulling up to a familiar clearing. First, Stiles sees other cars. Three of them, to be exact, one being a very recognizable camaro – though missing that new, shiny paint coat he’s used to seeing. Then, he sees the house. 

 

It’s eerie, really. His mouth is agape as he sticks his head as close to the window as he can to get the best view of the house as they pull up. After years of seeing its burnt out shell, seeing the true glory of what it once was – fuck, of what it  _ is _ – is astounding. And sad, he thinks, his heart skipping a beat. He hopes he can prevent what’s coming.

 

“Stiles.” 

 

Stiles is shook from his thoughts and he looks to who called his name; Peter. He realizes then that the car is parked and the older man has the keys in his hand, body halfway out of the car. 

 

“Right. Sorry,” he fusses with the door until he’s also out of the car. When he looks to Peter, he sees him with a horribly outdated phone, texting someone, and it makes him amused to watch Peter have to double-click numbers on the keypad just to get certain letters. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Peter put that much effort into something so tedious. 

 

Peter puts away the phone and looks to Stiles, ushering him to follow with a tilt of his head. Stiles follows him into the house, heart steadily building up its tempo. He knows he should probably be thinking of good arguments and strategies, or at least how the fuck he’s going to explain this all, but all he can focus on is putting one foot in front of the other as they walk.

 

When they finally enter the house, Stiles has to put a lot of effort into not stopping. The house is a mixture between victorian and craftsman style, with tasteful wainscoting lining the the long hallway entrance. Stiles sees light shining from the end of the hallway, can tell that there’s a kitchen with big, white-paned windows, but he’s steered into a room off the hallway by Peter before he can tell anything else. He swears he can see a flash of dark, long hair in the kitchen before his view is fully cut off and he’s shut into the room with Peter. 

 

Stiles looks around; it’s a study, filled with five or so people.

 

There’s a woman standing by the windows, her chin propped against her palm as she appears pensive. She doesn’t look at them as they enter, nor when Peter speaks up.

 

“This is him. He says his name is Stiles.” Peter says, resting his hand on the top of Stiles’ shoulder as he says it. Stiles tenses, knowing that it’s probably a simple, thoughtless gesture. But he’s still not totally comfortable around someone who murdered – will murder – innocent people. He looks to Peter briefly before shrugging the older man’s hand off his shoulder. Peter leaves it at that, thankfully.

 

“Please have a seat, Stiles,” 

 

Stiles looks forward. The woman has moved away from the window and is standing behind the desk now. Her hand is extended, ushering him to sit in the chair across from her. He nods and sits down. Peter moves with him, standing just behind his chair. When Stiles looks behind himself, he notices two men have moved to stand on either side of the door, stationed like guards. 

 

“Uh, thanks for seeing me,” Stiles says, his voice coming out meek when he looks back to the woman. She sits across from him, silent. It’s scary how much she looks like Derek and Cora. “I know that I, uh, probably don’t seem very… friendly right now. But I assure you, I mean no harm. I want to help.”

 

The woman across from him has a very hard expression as she listens to Stiles speak. Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say, but Stiles hasn’t really been known to say the right things. 

 

“Right.” she says, curt. Stiles doesn’t think she believes him. He probably wouldn’t, either. “Tell me what you have to say and I will make that decision for myself.”

 

Stiles nods. Right. Here he goes. 

 

“Uh. Well, I’m Stiles. Which you already know.” Stiles glances behind him, to Peter. “I don’t really know what Peter told you, but I have magic – I guess you could call me a witch, but that always seemed pretty female-specific. Anyway, I’m from the future. 2015, to be exact. I did a pretty dangerous, high level spell to get here. Not really my smartest decision, I admit, but it’s done and I’ve decided to try and change the future now that I’m here.”

 

There’s silence as Stiles let’s his statements hang in the air.

 

“Why did you do the spell?” the woman asks, her hands now folded pensively in front of her mouth.

 

Stiles wants to ask if she believes him, just like that, but he answers her question instead. “Well, um, my best friend was just killed. There’s not much of us left in the future– of our pack, I mean. There’s only so many times you fight for your life and win.” Stiles picks at his pants. It feels odd to say it out loud. After all, this only happened to him a few days ago. “I tried to find a way to bring him back, but that’s not possible. Magic doesn’t work like that. I found the time travel spell, though. It was the closest thing to bringing him back.”

 

“How is my family involved in this?” 

 

Stiles scratches his head. How do you tell the matriarch of a family that almost all of them will die? How do you tell her that you’ve seen her daughter torn in two? 

 

Stiles beats around the bush a bit longer. “When I was a sophomore in highschool, my best friend was bitten by a rogue alpha in the preserve. You’re son, Derek, was the one who mentored him through the transition.”

 

“Derek?” the woman interrupts, for the first time looking a bit shocked at what Stiles is saying. He nods.

 

“Yeah. We ended up working together with him to take down the crazy alpha. Derek ended up ripping his throat out and becoming the alpha himself. Eventually, Cora showed up in town, too, and joined the pack.”

 

“Wait.” the woman holds her palm up, her head hangs as she thinks. “None of this is making sense. Where was Cora? Where is the rest of my family in this future of yours?”

 

Stiles is silent. He gulps. “Well, ma’am. From what I understand, most of you die in a fire.” 

 

The woman blinks… and stares, and blinks. “What?” she asks, looking at him like he’s crazy.

 

“Maybe you already know this, but, uh, magic is kind of an unruly thing to wield. When you do a time travel spell, you don’t really have control over where it takes you. You have an intent, a reason for casting the spell and most likely you will end up where you’re supposed to be, but it can be confusing.” he takes a deep breath. “I cast the spell because I didn’t want my friends to be dead. I wanted to protect them, or change to circumstances that lead to their deaths. I think maybe I was brought to this year, specifically, to save your family.” Stiles looks at the woman right in her eyes, for once seeing a glimpse of fear eclipse them. “With your pack alive and thriving, Beacon Hills is safe. No one I love dies.”

 

He can see the woman’s gears turning. “How can you be sure this will solve your problem? How do you know it will change anything?” she asks. 

 

Stiles opens his mouth, about to answer, but finds himself stumped. He ponders for a moment. She has a point, afterall; it isn’t guaranteed to work, isn’t guaranteed to even be related. But, at the same time, Stiles has a feeling in his gut that he can’t ignore. 

 

“I can’t be positive, but I have to trust my instincts. If not…” it takes Stiles a long time to finish his sentence. He shrugs. “If not, that’s okay. I can give Cora and Derek they’re family back, that’s something.”

 

Long moments of tense silence stretch after he finishes his statement. The woman before him seems to go through a range of emotions as she processes. After a few beats later, she speaks.

 

“How can I know you’re telling the truth?”

 

Stiles purses his lips. Well, for one, she can hear his heartbeat. But, he can understand the need for more confirmation. He tries to think of something that will convince her. 

 

“I have my phone?” he says after a moment of thinking. “It’s back at the loft where I squatted last night, but I have photos on it. Definitely some of Cora, but I think there’s some of Derek, too. Me and my dad, too; he’ll be elected Sheriff in a few years. John Stilinski?”

 

He sees when she makes a decision. She stands up, releases a breath that she seemed to be holding, and nods. “Very well. Peter, I want you to take him to where he says it is and bring both back here.” She goes to leave the room, stopping by Peter and putting her hand on his shoulder. “And be careful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. Peter texting on a flip phone. I love the 2000s.
> 
> Please let me know if my continuity is confusing! I have a sneaking suspicion that I regularly leave out details that would help the plot make sense *rolls eyes at self*
> 
> I toyed with the idea of having Stiles investigate for a few chapters before approaching/being caught by the Hales but honestly it seemed like too much of a pointless delay. Hope the jump into the time-travel reveal wasn't too abrupt! I hope the Peter dialogue has been realistically Peter-y... I'm so used to writing Derek that this has been a challenge. TELL ME ALL YOUR THOUGHTS OKAY IGNORE ME BYE


	3. Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this chapter finds you well. You all who commented - thank you so much! I feel very special! Many of you asked some valid questions, and even if I don't have the time to respond to you all, know that I'm reading them/taking them into consideration with glee! Loving the feedback.
> 
> As mentioned before, I'm not particularly following canon very well. Some canon details make/will make it in, but I'm not restricting myself to them as the story progresses. Like, I don't know if Talia's husband was a werewolf, but I've read tons of fics where he's human, and I just decided to not do that here.
> 
> Enjoy!! <3

They’re back in the car, heading for the loft this time. Peter seems just as tense as before, but this time there’s a heavy feeling of sorrow hanging in the air between them. Stiles doesn’t know what to say, not really, so he stays silent except for when he gives Peter directions.

 

When they get there, Peter looks around like this is a part of town he hasn’t seen before. He eyes the padlocked front entrance like he just wants to claw his way in but follows Stiles up the fire escape without a word. 

 

When they reach the window entrance, Stiles stops him.

 

“What?” Peter asks, looking at the hand ushering him back like it offends him. Stiles moves his hands quickly, contorting them and muttering incantations under his breath, and an energy that Peter hadn’t noticed till now fizzles away.

 

“Had to drop the wards,” Stiles says, glancing at Peter before entering the loft through the window.

 

Peter frowns when he follows. “You slept here?” he asks as he looks around at the bare, dank loft. Stiles looks back at him and shrugs.

 

“Only one night,” 

 

Peter keeps close to Stiles as he fetches his phone and debit card from the hiding spot. When Stiles turns to him after, clearly done, Peter’s brow creases.

 

“That’s all you have?”

 

Stiles nods. “Everything I had on me when I did the spell.” He slips his phone and card into his back pocket and Peter watches him do it.

 

“Can I ask you a question?” Peter asks after a moment, surprising himself as it slips out of his mouth. Stiles blinks up at him, but nods. “Back at the coffee shop, when I told you my name, you… reacted badly.” Peter states and oh man, Stiles feels like he’s been caught. He looks at the floor. “Why? Do you… know me in the future?”

 

Stiles clears his throat, flicking his eyes around the room. Peter wants to know if he dies in the fire. If he outlives his family. “We should go. Your sister is waiting.” He heads for the window, deliberately not looking Peter in the eye. But the older man steps in front of him.

 

“She can wait a few more minutes.” he says, leveling Stiles with a particularly scolding look.

 

Stiles sighs, takes a step back. He looks at Peter, then looks to the ceiling, then back to Peter. He’s about to insist they leave, again, when Peter speaks.

 

“Were you… scared of me?” Peter asks slowly, like he knows it’s the answer but he doesn’t quite believe it. Stiles scoffs.

 

“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly a saint in the future, Peter.” he says. He gives the other man a hard stare, trying to communicate that he’s done talking about it. He already feels like he let too much information slip. “Can we please go back now?” 

 

Peter relents finally, stepping to the side and letting Stiles pass. They drive back to the Hale house in silence. 

 

  * • •



 

The woman, or Talia as she’s finally introduced herself, is looking through the photos on his phone with an eerie expression to her face. A bit skeptical, but mostly… awed. Stiles is actually getting a bit prickly with how much she stares.

 

“Don’t–… not too long, ah, there is no technology in this time able to charge my phone. I have to conserve battery…” Stiles meeps out. He lets himself trail off when Talia gives him a quick glare.

 

“These are my children. And you.” she says quietly. Peter is behind her also staring at the photos, and he takes the phone from his sister when she hands it back. He pockets the phone. “I have to admit, Stiles… I believe you.”

 

Stiles releases the biggest breath at her words. “That’s awesome,” he says. Talia nods, clasping her hands together atop her desk.

 

“I need you to tell me everything you know about what happens to my family. And then we can begin to… try to solve this, as best we can.” 

 

“Yes, yeah. Of course.” Stiles takes a deep breath and releases it slowly as he collects his thoughts. “Well, for starters, I don’t actually know that much. Which, I know, that’s a bummer. But Derek is pretty private in the future and the fire wasn’t ever solved by the sheriff’s department, so…” Stiles pauses only to cringe at the unhappy look Talia is giving him. “But, thankfully, I have magic! Which means I can investigate a lot better than any old deputy.”

 

“What you know, Stiles.” 

 

Stiles nods. “Right. Um, I’m ninety percent sure it will happen within the year; magic brought me to this time for a reason. I also know it has something to do with Derek. He’s very – well, from what I’ve gathered over the years, he was manipulated into being complicit in the fire. I think he was used for information or something along those lines. But, I don’t know much more. We’re going to have to look into it deeper.”

 

“What can we do to help?” Talia asks. 

 

Stiles cocks his head, thinking. “Do you have an emissary? Deaton? If I can have access to his herbs and minerals, I have a few investigative spells in mind. I can start with those. Examining all the newcomers in your family’s life will be helpful, too.” he says. “Oh, and a computer? I can start some research.”

 

“That can be done. I’ll have my husband contact Deaton today. In the meantime,” Talia pulls her gaze from Stiles and addresses the room of wolves. “No one leaves our home territory without my approval. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go discuss these developments with my husband.” With that, Talia stands from her desk and leaves the room, though not before having a silent eye-conversation with her brother.

 

Stiles watches her go, followed by the other wolves as they slowly filter out with nods in Peter’s direction. Stiles looks back to the last wolf in the room, who’s still standing behind his sister’s desk twirling Stiles’s iPhone between his fingers. If only he knew how easily they break.

 

“What do I do now?” Stiles asks. Peter shrugs.

 

“I suppose I’m your babysitter for the time being. Which means you’re staying here. I’ll set you up in the guest room.” He motions for Stiles to follow with a tilt of his head as he exits the office. 

 

Stiles follows Peter farther into the house and up the stairs. They don’t run into any other people on their way up, but Stiles is too busy taking in the realness of the Hale house to even notice people if they came across them. It’s so  _ lived in _ , Stiles thinks. He can’t get over it.

 

They arrive at a plain room with a bed and a nightstand and two big windows to the forest outside. It’s a small room, almost the size of a walk-in closet, and on the interior wall there’s a door to what Stiles assumes is the closet.

 

“The guest room,” Peter says. He stares at Stiles as he nods, walking into the room further in a casual motion of settling in. “I guess you need a change of clothes, huh?” 

 

Stiles looks down at his clothes: his hoodie, shirt, and pants are covered in coffee stains. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

 

Peter nods before disappearing through the door on the interior wall. Stiles frowns and steps closer, finding that it’s not a closet but a doorway to another bedroom – a messy, lived-in, blue-toned bedroom. Peter is standing at a dresser rustling through a drawer of clothes.

 

“Is… is this your room?” Stiles asks. Peter only nods his head as he continues to search for clothing before coming back to Stiles with a handful of shirts and pants.

 

“Not sure if they’ll fit, but they should do.”

 

“Right. Thanks.” Stiles takes them from Peter. They’re clearly all sweat pants and casual tee shirts. 

 

“So, what spells do you have in mind?”

 

Stiles blinks. “Hm?”

 

“Investigative spells. How are you going to start solving the Hale fire mystery?”

 

Stiles sighs, taps his thumb on the wad of clothes. Jesus. He really wasn’t that prepared, he just had an idea of where to start. He makes his way to the bed and sits on the edge, setting the clothes down next to him.

 

“Well, I think I’ll probably set up some wards around the house and territory. Just, you know, good precautionary steps. But there’s kind of a lot I could do, and I’d like to pick Deaton’s brain a bit. In general, I think I’ll send out some feelers into the universe. See what I get back.”

 

The two men nod at each other and a moment of silence passes.

 

“Hey. Do you think I could get my phone back?” 

 

Peter only raises an eyebrow, pulling out the phone and flipping through it. Because of course Stiles doesn’t have an lock screen.

 

“What are you doing?” Stiles frowns.

 

“How long until I’m able to buy one of these at the store?” Peter asks as he clicks through the home screen. Stiles releases an exasperated breath.

 

“I don’t know, dude. It’s at least five years before the first iphone is released but they don’t really look like that. That’s the most recent one, a six.”

 

Peter hums. “What’s ‘Grindr?’” 

 

Stiles sputters. He stands up and walks to Peter with his hand out. “Jesus, dude, you’ll just have to wait 13 years and see for yourself. Gimme my phone.” Peter eyes him for a moment before finally relenting and handing off the phone. Stiles releases a breath of relief finally having it back in his hands and quickly powers it down. He goes over to the drawer of his nightstand and puts it away there.

 

Peter nods at the pile of clothes. “You should change and come downstairs. I’ll make you some food.” Peter holds his gaze. “You like grilled cheese and tomato soup?” Stiles nods. “Good. I’ll see you downstairs in a few.” Peter waits a beat longer before leaving the room and closing the door behind him. 

 

Stiles stands in place for a minute. He listens to the sound of Peter’s retreating footsteps. Glancing around the room, Stiles closes the door connecting the guest room to Peter’s. Then he turns to the pile of clothes Peter gave him. He paws through the stack, finding a worn baseball tee with a white torso and blue quarter sleeves, plus a pair of adidas sweat pants. Both the shirt and the pants are a bit oversized on him when he puts them on, but they feel clean on his skin and he’s able to tie the drawstring on the pants in a way that makes them fit better. The legs are long, though, so he finds himself rolling them up. As a last thought, he moves the small notebook from his hoodie into the pockets of the sweat pants. 

 

Slipping his shoes back on, he makes his way downstairs.

 

He isn’t sure where to go, but finds the kitchen by following the smell of toasted bread and tomato soup. He comes upon a strange scene when he enters the kitchen. Peter is flipping a sandwich in a pan on the stove while a girl sits at the island counter reading a book. She has long, straight black hair and looks around eight or nine years old. She doesn’t acknowledge Stiles as he enters the kitchen, but Peter meets his gaze.

 

“Hey,” Stiles greets Peter, taking a seat two stools down from the girl. Peter transfers the two sandwiches from the pan to two plates. He turns around and serves them to Stiles and the girl. Next, he sets a bowl of tomato soup in front of each of them. 

 

“Glad the clothes fit.” Peter says. He turns off the stove and leans against the counter across from the island, facing Stiles.

 

“Ew,” the girl says. Stiles looks over to see her nose scrunched up as she stares him down. “You smell like Uncle Peter.”

 

Stiles looks down at the borrowed clothes. “Uh,” he says.

 

“He smells like me because he’s wearing my clothes, genius.” Peter retorts.

 

“Gross.” she says, dipping her sandwich into the soup and taking a bite. “Who is he?”

 

Stiles looks to Peter, not sure what they want to tell the rest of the family about him. Peter is staring at him curiously, brow a bit furrowed as he thinks.

 

“Stiles is a time traveler from the future sent back to save us from impending doom.” Peter says. Stiles’ jaw drops. “Oh, he’s also a witch.” Peter adds, which makes Stiles groan.

 

“Magic user,” Stile corrects hastily. “Druid if you must call it something ominous. Though I prefer not to sound like a character out of Dungeons and Dragons.”

 

“You guys are lame,” the girl says. She expertly balances her plate, bowl of soup, and book as she gets down from her stool and leaves the kitchen. Peter smiles as he rounds the island and takes her seat.

 

“Was that Cora?” Stiles asks, turning back to Peter after watching her leave. Peter nods. “What are you guys going to tell the family about me?”

 

“The truth.” Peter shrugs. He fishes his flip phone out of his pocket and begins texting someone, so Stiles turns to his meal and takes a few bites.

 

“So, uh. Where’s the rest of the family?” Stiles asks in between bites. Without looking up, Peter answers.

 

“Talia and Mark are going over the situation with them.” 

 

“Is Mark her husband?” Peter nods. Stiles looks at the stove clock; it’s almost three o’clock already. “Do you think Deaton is coming by today?”

 

Peter finally puts his phone away and looks back to Stiles. “He’s out of town, so no. He’ll come straight here when he gets back.”

 

“Okay. What day of the week is it?” Stiles asks. Peter cocks his head to the side. 

 

“Sunday.” Peter answers. “Do you even know what year it is?”

 

Stiles scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Yes.” he says. “Are you going to hang around me at all times?”

 

Peter shrugs. “For the most part, yes.”

 

Stiles sighs. His life has truly become an interesting turn of events. “So, how’s 2002 treating you? Frosted tips still in style?” Stiles asks. Peter’s lips twitch.

 

“Not in this house. You guys have flying cars in 2015?” 

 

Stiles barks out a loud laugh, throwing his head back as he does so. “God, no. We barely have electric cars.”

 

“What do I have to look forward to, then?” Peters asks playfully, leaning his body against the counter’s edge and keeping his eyes on Stiles. 

 

“Uh,” Stiles thinks, thrown off a little by the shift in Peter’s demeanor, but he ignores it. Surely, it doesn’t mean anything. “Not much, to be honest. Faster internet, slightly more progressive society. Netflix.” He shrugs, finishing off his sandwich. Peter only nods at the information, casually watching Stiles finish his meal.

 

It’s odd. Stiles is actually starting to warm up to the guy. The Peter he knows from the future is a vile, untrustable creep; this Peter just seems like a normal young adult. And Stiles doesn’t really know how to process that.

 

“You said you needed a computer?” Peter asks after a moment. Stiles looks back over to him, nodding. “I’ve got one in my room.”

 

“Does it have internet?” Stiles asks back. Peter nods. “Okay, cool. We’ll see what the world wide web has to offer me.”

 

Peter puts away Stiles’s dishes when he’s finished and leads them back upstairs. Peter’s computer, turns out, is one of those old blue Macs. 

 

“Whoa. Haven’t used one of these since elementary school. Blast from the fucking past,” Stiles laughs, touching the blue, see-through plastic shell. Peter is looking at him oddly when Stiles glances back, which makes him scratch his head sheepishly. “Sorry. Should I keep my weird time travel anecdotes to myself?” 

 

Peter lets out a breath, half-chuckles and shakes his head. “No, feel free to keep putting them out in the world. Maybe not in public, though.” he replies.

 

Stiles nods. “Good point. This password protected?” Stiles points at the computer in question and Peter shakes his head. “Dope.” 

 

Stiles sits at the computer desk and powers up the old machine. He looks around Peter’s bedroom as he waits for it to go through its process. There’s nothing on the walls except for a hook with jackets hanging off it, but there is lots of books. A whole bookshelf of them, and numerous more stacked in piles on the desk and around his bed. Looking closer at the spines, many of them are textbooks. 

 

Stiles looks back to Peter, who has his nose in a book right now, leaned against his headboard. “Are you in college?” he asks. Peter looks up.

 

“Grad school,” he answers.

 

“Huh. What’s your major?” Stiles asks as he’s finally able to log onto the user and open internet explorer. Peter doesn’t respond immediately, so Stiles looks at him again.

 

“Architecture.” he says. Stiles stares at younger Peter, eyes squinting, and tries to imagine him as an architect. All he really sees is evil Peter, with red eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth.

 

So, Stiles hums in lieu of a response. He turns back to the computer and pulls out his notebook so he can take notes while he researches. Better to focus on the task at hand then try and reconcile this Peter with the Peter he knew.

  
  
  


“Stiles.”

 

Stiles blinks himself awake. He had only dozed for a minute, but his body has already slumped forward and his hand has slipped from the mouse, hanging limply at his side. He was in the middle of reading through local news stories online, but he can’t remember where he left off.

 

“If you’re tired, go to bed.” Peter says. Stiles straightens up and rubs his eyes. He looks to Peter, standing next to him.

 

“What time is it?” he asks. 

 

“It’s seven,” Peter says. Another long pause as Stiles blinks slowly. “Are you hungry?” 

 

Stiles thinks about it – not really, just tired. “No.” he says. “I’ll just go pass out for the night.” 

 

Stiles bookmarks the tabs he wants to revisit another time and shuts down the computer. 

 

“Bathroom?” he asks, looking at Peter. Peter leads him into the hallway and shows him the bathroom. Stiles reminds himself to brush his teeth in morning, too tired to do so now, as he pees before bed. 

 

Back in his guest room, he shuts the door and heads for the bed before noticing the interior door still open. He goes to shut it wordlessly, but Peter is sitting on his bed facing the guest room and they make eye contact.

 

“Uh, ‘night Peter.” he says. Peter only nods, and Stiles shuts the door.

 

• • •

 

Stiles is whimpering. He can’t breathe because the monster has its hands wrapped around his neck. His most powerful rune tattoo is keeping his trachea from being crushed, but the block on his airflow can’t be helped. He’s dying. 

 

Scott is dying. He’s bleeding out five feet away from Stiles. He’s not– he’s not supposed to be able to bleed out, he’s suppose to– but he is. And Stiles can’t do anything because he’s dying, too.

 

He’s scraping at the hands over his neck. He’s trying to pull them away but his strength is fading and his head is getting lighter. 

 

He should be dead by now. But he’s not. It’s been minutes without air in his lungs. Scott’s eyes have closed and he’s lying silent, and Stiles is just being held there, pinned by the throat. Trying to breathe but not being able to, scraping at the hands around this throat weakly. He just keeps scraping, digging his nails in with as much strength as he can muster, crying. 

 

_ Scraping _ .

 

“Stiles!”

 

Stiles opens his eyes to his hands being pulled away from him forcefully. He reacts on reflex, thrusting the figure hovering over him back with a force of magic. They fly across the room, hitting the wall and slumping to the ground with a groan.

 

It’s the loud crash of his actions that shakes Stiles out of the nightmare. His eyes clear. He’s in the guest room at the Hale house, not back in that alleyway. When he sees Peter slumped against the wall, he gasps, jumping out of the guest bed.

 

“Peter, I’m sorry, I–”

 

The door to his bedroom swings open and Talia and her husband rush in with glowing eyes, half shifted. Stiles’s eyes snap to them and his posture shrinks even more. He twists his hands together, nails biting into skin.

 

“What’s going on?” Talia asks, her alpha voice filling the room. Her nostrils flare as she fixes her gaze on Stiles.

 

“Shit– fuck, I’m sorry, it was an accident, I–” Stiles gulps. Peter groans as he pulls himself up. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t know what I– what I–”

 

“Stiles, relax. I’m fine. It’s fine.” Peter says sternly, giving him a firm glare to shut him up. It works. “Talia, Mark, go back to bed. It was just a nightmare. I was the idiot who didn’t wake him up properly.”

 

Talia hesitates as she switches her gaze between Peter and Stiles. Stiles only grows red in shame as he goes over his mistake, again and again, in his head. Stupid magic, stupid nightmares.

 

“Christ.” Talia mumbles when she finally relaxes. She drops the alpha eyes. “Peter, take care of him.” She says, motioning to Stiles. Peter nods at his sister’s order.

 

In the next moment, the Talia and Mark are just tired parents. Both mumbling goodnight, they leave the room and close the door behind them. 

 

Stiles is sucking in deep, stilted breaths as he tries to wind down. He wipes the moisture from his eyes. 

 

“T-take care of me?” Stiles asks. He internally curses his stuttering, not being able to stop it. The adrenaline from the nightmare is making him vibrate out of his skin.

 

Peter motions to Stiles with his chin. “You scratched up your neck in your sleep.” 

 

Stiles touches a shaking hand to his neck, where there is indeed a wet and stinging sensation. “Oh.” he pauses, taking deep breaths. When he looks at Peter, the older man has a troubled, almost angry, expression. Stiles winces. “Sorry. I’m going to go back to bed.”

 

“What happened?” Peter asks, his frown deepening. 

 

“What?” Stiles asks.

 

“What happened to you,” Peter repeats. “To give you a dream like that?”

 

Stiles swallows. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He wipes his face again, sits on the edge of the bed with his back to Peter. Peter just clicks his tongue, clearly irritated. 

 

“I’m going to get a clean rag for your neck.” he says, leaving the room silently.

 

Stiles has calmed his breathing by the time Peter returns. The older man rounds the bed, coming to stand in front of Stiles.

 

“Look up,” he murmurs, faintly touching Stiles’ chin. Stiles tilts his head up, letting Peter pat down his marred neck. Once it’s clean, Peter produces a tube of ointment that he applies gently. When Peter is done, he steps back and hesitates.

 

“Thanks. You can go back to bed now, I’m fine.” Stiles says. Peter looks reluctant, but he nods after a beat of silence. 

 

“Goodnight, Stiles,” he says. 

 

Stiles looks up at him, nods. “‘Night, Peter.” he says, pulling back the covers and crawling back in. Peter walks back to where their rooms are connected and leaves Stiles alone, but doesn’t close the door all the way. Instead, he leaves it open a crack.

 

Stiles falls asleep quickly, eyes staring at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait!! Two weeks, I know, I know!! Who is this lady writing this fic, smh at her.
> 
> Lmao, just to give you guys an idea of my schedule, not only am I a full-time college student but I'm also the Editor-in-Chief of my college newspaper (community college, so small but still time consuming). I held off posting for an extra week so I could wrap up the final issue before break, basically. Now, to tackle my finals... *shudder* Only one more week!
> 
> Let me know what you think! I plan to work heavily on this over winter break, so I'll see y'all again soon.


	4. Chapter 4.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo... it's short, & maybe a little bland but y'all I had to get some sort of chapter out. Named chapter 4.1 cause I'm low key still trying to finish writing chapter four.
> 
> You can find details @ at the end of the chapter if you're curious and wanna hear about what's new in my life... *cough* not much *cough* ;)
> 
> No beta, so be gentle!

Stiles manages to sleep dreamlessly for the rest of the night. He awakes early in the morning, when the sun has just risen above the horizon and is blinding him with a light beam right in his eyes. He groans as he flips over in the guest bed, but he can’t fall back asleep now that he’s awake. Plus, there’s the definite sound of awake family filtering up from the downstairs.

Despite being exhausted– nightmare sleep doesn’t do anything to rest him up– Stiles stumbles out of the bed. Yawning, he makes his way down.

The whole Hale family is congregated in the kitchen. Talia Hale is wearing a pristine power suit, talking with her husband who is equally well dressed. Talia makes eye contact with Stiles and smiles, making him blink at her all-too-motherly demeanor. 

“Good morning, Stiles,” she says warmly. She motions to her husband standing next to her, who turns with a welcoming smile. “This is my husband, Mark.”

“Good morning,” Stiles replies, returning the smile as best he can in his morning stupor. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise, Stiles.” Mark nods. The two parents return to their conversation– morning goodbyes, it seems as they kiss– and Stiles turns his attention to the rest of the kitchen.

Seated at the kitchen island are the Hale children. Cora is seated closest to their parents, eating cereal with her nose in a book, ignoring the loud chatter of her family. Next to her is young Derek and Laura, eating toast and eggs as they argue. Their arguments die down, however, when they notice Stiles standing in the kitchen. Both look at him curiously, but don’t say anything. Stiles just blinks; he’s too exhausted to process this at the moment. 

His gaze finds Peter last, leaning against the counter on the far end of the kitchen, nursing a mug of coffee. Stiles, of course, zeros in on the cup of steaming hot black gold and makes a beeline around the kitchen island to Peter.

“Please tell me where I can get some of that.” he demands with a gravelly sleep voice, making Peter’s lips curl into a smirk. Peter walks to where the coffee pot is, still full and steaming, and Stiles follows eagerly. Peter gets him a mug from a cabinet and turns to the fridge.

“Milk? Sugar?” he questions. 

“Half and half?” Stiles asks back, and Peter nods as he retrieves it. Stiles pours, and Peter returns with a carton of cream and a spoon for stirring. He leans back against the counter next to Stiles, sipping his own coffee.

Stiles can hear an echo chamber of goodbyes from the family, and turns around with his new mug of coffee to see Mark leaving with Cora– presumably to take her to school. It’s all kinds of fuzzy for him as he gulps down his coffee, slowly coming back to himself. It’s not long before Laura and Derek leave as well, accompanied by Talia. 

It’s another moment later that he realizes he’s alone in the house with Peter now. He turns to the older wolf.

“You don’t have a job to get to?” he asks. Peter shakes his head.

“Nope, it’s summer break for me.” he replies.

Stiles looks around the empty, silent Hale house. “Where are all the other wolves, the ones from yesterday?” he asks, cocking his head curiously as he looks back to Peter.

“Pack members who don’t live with us.” Peter answers. Stiles nods as he absorbs this information. Either they died in the fire, too, or they disbanded in the wake of the Hale fire. He supposes it’s something he may never know.

“Alright. What’s on the agenda for today, Creeperwolf?” 

Peter clears his throat. “Creeperwolf?” he asks. Stiles shakes his head, waves his hand in the air between them.

“Ignore that,” he says. “Any updates on Deaton’s ETA?” he asks instead. Peter nods once. 

“He should be here the day after tomorrow.” Peter says.

Stiles nods. Deaton gets here on Wednesday, which gives him two days to get through the easy grunt work of warding the territory. He tells Peter as much.

“You don’t need anything else for that?” Peter asks. Stiles shakes his head.

“Nope, just me and my magic.”

 

About an hour later, after Peter made a point to shove toast in Stiles’ face for breakfast, they’re dressed and ready for the day’s work. Stiles has an idea of where the perimeter should be – these woods have been his stomping ground for a while – but it is 13 years in the past. He asks Peter what he thinks.

“We should go at least a half-mile out.” Peter says. Stiles nods at that, not too happy about all the walking but knowing it has to be done. 

He tells Peter what they’ll be looking for: “Healthy trees, at least a foot wide, at even intervals along the perimeter.”

Peter nods. “Easy enough. Let’s head out.”

Stiles follows Peter into the woods. It takes them about fifteen minutes of walking before they come to the first tree. Peter motions to it, and Stiles steps up to it. It takes him a moment to center the intent within him, but before long he’s muttering the first incantation. His hands rest against each other in front of his abdomen, sliding into two quick signs before his right hand upturns, pointer finger extended. The tip of his finger glows.

He lifts his shimmering fingertip to the tree trunk and begins to draw the ward. Dark marks, almost like burn sears, appear in the bark as he moves his finger, only to disappear once the symbol is completed. Stiles takes a moment, breathes deeply, and steps back.

He shakes out his hand, slips out his notebook. The forest around them is quiet as Stiles notes down what he’s done before he closes it and slips it back into his pocket. He turns to Peter.

“Alright, next tree.”

Peter is silent, but his brows are high on his forehead. His eyes are intent on Stiles, like he’s trying to decipher what just happened. He nods, though, and they move on.

They work their way through about seven trees– or is it nine? Stiles isn’t sure. All he knows is that one moment he’s warding up and taking notes and the next he’s leaning against a tree, catching his breath.

“You okay?” Peter asks. He touches his hand to Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles looks at it, looks at Peter and gives him a placating smile. 

He waves his hand in the air. “Yeah, yeah, just… exhausted. How far of a walk is the house?” Stiles asks. He looks up into the sky and squints; it’s about midday. 

Peter removes his hand and looks in the direction of the house. “Fifteen minutes.”

Stiles lets out a big breath. “Yep. Yeah, let’s take a break for a while.”

They head back through the thicket of the forest and emerge from the treeline after ten minutes. The last five are spent walking across the expansive clearing that circles the house. The sun is at its highest point and blaring down right on Stiles, making him sweat as he walks.

The last few yards are excruciating for Stiles. Any reserve energy he had is just about used up and he feels like he has sweat through his clothes. Not to mention, he feels his eyelids grow heavier with each step. He hopes the Hales have air conditioning. He prays.

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief when he’s greeted with a gush of dry, cool air upon entering the house. He thinks he even groans. He makes for the living room off the kitchen and sits on the big couch.

“Do you want a glass of water?” Peter asks. Stiles looks up at him, standing behind the couch like he’s already going to get it. Stiles nods enthusiastically.

“Yes, please,” he says. He leans back against the couch, neck extended and the back of his skull resting against it as he waits for Peter to return with his water. A minute later, cold glass is placed against his cheek and he moans. He opens his eyes and takes the water from Peter. He hadn’t even realized he closed his eyes in the first place.

“You’re welcome.” Peter says, faux irritation coloring his tone. Stiles looks to him over the rim of the glass and rolls his eyes. He tips the water back and chugs, long and slow swallows, until the glass is empty. When he’s done, he hands the glass back to Peter.

“Thanks.” he says. He toes off his shoes right in front of him as Peter sits down on the coffee table before the couch. Peter sets the empty glass to the side and peers at Stiles, his elbows resting against his thighs.

“Why are you so fatigued?” he asks. Just as he says this, Stiles yawns big. His mouth opens wide and his eyes water. He shrugs; slumps to his right on the couch, elbow out to support his weight.

“It’s the magic. Wears me out.” he puts simply. Peter looks puzzled, eyebrow raised. 

“Can’t you mitigate that?” 

Stiles is practically fully sprawled on the couch now. His eyes are closed again, a sleepy look on his face. “Nah. Don’t like holding back. Gotta use all I got.” He smacks his lips.

“Doesn’t that become inconvenient?” Peter clearly thinks it’s stupid. Stiles just shrugs again.

“I like naps,” he says. Peter is silent as he appraises the young magic user. He watches Stiles slip into sleep in under a minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hi welcome back IT'S BEEN OVER A MONTH I KNOW SHH
> 
> Guyz just like... you should know now that I'm a procrastinator. I had two midterms this week and I studied for neither (someone kick me out of college already).
> 
> So, basically, I had the choice to do all the things I said I was going to do with my winter break, or play sims on a brand new desktop for like three weeks, and honestly it wasn't even a hard choice. I'm on generation four of my family. Let's be real.
> 
> But that also meant that I didn't write anything, except a really bad, wish-fulfillment, feral-Derek, mpreg-Stiles side fic that is so poorly structured. I'm sorry? (also look for that in the future? idk I'm trying to make it readable) (it's also not finished)
> 
> Basically, long story short, to summarize, in conclusion: I was stupid and took a stupidly hard class load this term and I'm also applying to all these four year colleges and writing depressing admissions essays, and yeah. It's been a weird winter term. I also changed my major like a month ago, UGH, which has complicated everything. I blame capitalism. 
> 
> Okay, actually related to this story – it has an abrupt ending and is like a boring half chapter, I know. I just felt really bad for leaving y'all hanging. I hope you enjoy it. I have all the next chapters mapped out (mostly) I just need to find time to write it and go through my process of edits. So bare with me please! 
> 
> Thank you for reading my words and my word vomit, and thank you for helping me keep this fandom alive!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes, so it's been a while. Hello again! Enjoy :)

_ “... all day together?” _

 

Stiles frowns. He feels the fabric of the couch under his fingertips. There’s a weight of something… a blanket? 

 

_ “Laura, be quiet.”  _

 

That sounds like Peter. He sounds bothered, voice fast and pitched higher. Frustrated. He’s… talking to Laura? 

 

_ “C’mon, Peter. Your scent is all over him, I’m not an idiot.” She pauses. “I mean, I don’t blame you. He’s cute.” _

 

Stiles imagines her saying this laying in the dirt of the forest. Half of her body is gone, but her eyes are open and she’s speaking like normal.

 

_ Peter growls. “Shall we talk about your punk-wannabe boy-toy, then?” Silence.  _

 

Stiles ignores the dream. He thinks it’s a dream. He rubs his face into the couch and pushes himself back into dreamless sleep.

  
  


Stiles emerges from the tendrils of deep sleep to the sounds of chatter in the kitchen. He actually feels rested now, and he feels a sharp pain of hunger hit him as he dozes. Food. He wants a hamburger. Or fries. Or pizza. 

 

He grumbles and wipes a hand down his face. Takes a deep breath, forces himself to sit up. A plaid blanket slides down to pool in his lap.

 

His eyes are still watery and sticky as he blinks them. He yawns. He looks to the kitchen and sees Talia and Mark doing dishes together by the sink. Looking outside, it’s clear that it’s late – the sky is dimmer, the sun close to setting.

 

“Have a nice nap?” 

 

Stiles turns back and sees Peter sitting on the other couch, book in his hand. Stiles nods.

 

“What time is is?” he asks. Peter flips out his phone and checks.

 

“Eight o’clock.”

 

“Did I miss dinner?” Stiles asks, and he can’t help but sound disappointed. Peter raises a brow.

 

“Yes. Are you hungry?”

 

“ _ Starving _ .” Stiles replies immediately. As if on cue, his stomach sounds off with a grumble. Peter huffs out a laugh,  _ an actual laugh _ , and stands from the couch.

 

“Let me see if I can take you out to eat,” he says, smile still lingering on his lips as he walks off.

 

Talia allows them to go, thankfully. Stiles tries to go upstairs to snag his remaining funds, but Peter just waves him off; inconsequential. Stiles feels a bit underdressed in his oversized track pants and tee shirt, especially next to Peter in his jeans and casual button down. He decides not to think about it.

 

Peter takes him to the diner on the edge of town. They pile into a booth and Stiles orders a hamburger with a side of hashbrowns. Peter only gets a glass of water.

 

“I getting the feeling that if I don’t feed you three meals a day, you won’t get them,” Peter says as he watches Stiles scarf down his food with a disgusted gaze. It’s obvious now that Stiles hasn’t had anything to eat since the morning. Stiles smirks and points his fork in Peter’s direction, much to the werewolf’s displeasure. 

 

“You know, historically speaking, you’re not wrong.” Stiles says. Peter just rolls his eyes.

 

They sit in silence for another couple minutes before Peter speaks up again. “Do you feel recharged yet?” he asks, eyes trailing Stiles’ body as if he could physically see the answer. Stiles quirks his head to the side, thinking. He ignores the surveying eyes. 

 

“Mostly, yeah. The food is helping. I should be able to finish warding tomorrow.”

 

They both nod at the statement. Peter stirs the straw in his water and he thinks. “And then?”

 

Stiles forks ketchup-doused hashbrowns into his mouth and speaks immediately after. “Then it’s research time. We’ll figure out who the to-be culprit is, and, uh, I guess pass that info onto your sister.” Peter nods. Stiles swallows his bite and considers Peter. “Do you think your sister will kill them? Whoever they are?”

 

Peter considers it, thumb rubbing over his bottom lip as he does, and he tilts his head in an appraising way. “I would, if I were her.” he murmurs.

 

Stiles smiles to himself. “Well, duh.” he says, like it’s obvious. 

 

Peter frowns down at his water. 

 

“So, architecture, huh?” The question pulls Peter out of his thoughts and their gazes reconnect. Peter nods.

 

“Yes, architecture.” he confirms.

 

“Where did that idea come from?” Stiles asks. The Peter he knew would have never fit that mold. 

 

Peter shrugs, leans forward on his elbows. “I like spaces.” he says, and Stiles waits for more but Peter doesn’t elaborate. 

 

“That’s it?” he asks, leveling Peter with an unamused glare. Peter just gives him a smug shake of his shoulders, as if to say  _ what can you do _ , but it’s only a moment later that he changes his tune. 

 

“I don’t know,” Peter says to fill the silence between them. He lowers his eyes to his lap. “My grandparents built our house almost a century ago. I love that house. It’s a part of our pack. I guess I want to make things like that. Spaces like that.”

 

Stiles doesn’t say anything immediately after, because that’s… pretty vulnerable for Peter. The stillness draws Peter’s attention, and their eyes make contact once again. There’s something in Peter’s gaze – something that Stiles doesn’t know what to do with – that makes him blush, and he clears his throat.

 

“That’s, um– that’s awesome, dude.” Stiles says. Peter only nods in response.

 

They fill the rest of the dinner with shop talk. Peter asks him about his magic training, and Stiles talks about his time studying under Deaton and forging his own path through independent study. Peter pays the bill when the waitress comes back around, and once it’s all said and done, they head out.

 

The two are leaving the diner, Peter walking ahead of Stiles, when Stiles hears something familiar. The animated speech of a hyper child and the amused and exasperated voice of… his father. Immediately, his heartbeat picks up and his eyes find the source of the noise. Just a meer distance away is his father, younger and in a deputy’s uniform, helping six year old Stiles out of the squad car. 

 

Noticing Stiles’ sudden change in heart rate, Peter shoots him a questioning look. Before any words can be exchanged, Stiles makes a reactive decision. Grabbing Peter by the arm, he drags them both against the brick diner exterior.

 

“Stiles?” Peter blinks at the human before him, who hasn’t really acknowledged him but who shoots him a glare.

 

“Shh! Don’t say my name. Act natural.” Stiles reaches up and places his hand against the back of Peter’s head, pulling him closer. Peter goes, only because the sheer forwardness surprises him. This close to Stiles’ neck, he can’t smell anything but the scent of the younger man. 

 

Stiles’ own face is hovering rather close to Peter’s neck, making the wolf tingle with apprehension. Does Stiles know what this sort of gesture suggests? Trying to stave the temptation to wrap his arms around the younger man, Peter places both against the brick behind them, effectively bracketing Stiles in. 

 

Stiles’ heart is still beating furiously, and all his focus is directed at the figures behind Peter. He watches his father and his younger self with wary eyes. They don’t notice him as they make their way inside the diner. 

 

It take Stiles a full minute after the father and son disappear inside to release his held breath. Slowly, he relaxes his body against the brick. Peter also stirs, pulling back to meet Stiles’ eyes but not removing himself from his position against him.

 

Stiles blinks up at Peter a bit gobsmacked, met with an intense gaze. Stiles becomes caught up in it, entranced, as the moment stretches on. His heart beats fast, leftover adrenaline or… something else clouding his judgement.

 

Stiles gulps, and Peter tracks the movement. Stiles watches as Peter’s eyes eclipse beta gold, and… he can’t be about to kiss Stiles. Can he?

 

He watches Peter part his lips, tongue peaking out. He piques a devilish eyebrow at Stiles, leaning in incrementally, his chest expanding with a deep breath. Everything you do before a kiss. Stiles can practically already feel the wolf’s lips against his, can feel the gust of his warm breath.

 

Except, in the next moment, Peter’s presence is gone. Stiles blinks, officially Dumbfounded™️ as he stares at the wolf take a step away from him, then another. Peter’s eyebrow is still raised as he heads for the car, a smirk on his lips. He looks back to Stiles as if to say ‘you coming?’ 

 

Stiles frowns, cheeks pink. Figures.  Fucking werewolves – fucking Peter.

 

***

 

Stiles gently jiggles his leg on the drive back to the Hale house. He won’t look at Peter, and has managed to keep his mouth shut for the drive so far. That was… fucking embarrassing. He’s grown enough to admit to himself that he  _ wanted _ Peter to kiss him. He felt it in his bones, felt it down to the soles of his shoes. He just can’t fathom  _ why _ he wanted it. It’s Peter Hale, afterall. He’s dangerous.

 

Except, younger Peter– golden eyed Peter – doesn’t seem so dangerous. Stiles doesn’t know what’s real and what isn’t anymore.

 

Stiles thumbs his chap lip, uses it to get a hold of a layer of dead skin between his teeth to bite and chew at. Stiles also realizes why he’s letting himself obsess over this. He’s not sure if he really wants to open the floodgate that is seeing his younger self and younger father. His mood goes sour, and he tries to push it away.

 

“Was that…” Peter starts, trailing off. Stiles looks over briefly. He wants Stiles to finish the thought.

 

“My dad.” Stiles says.

 

“And the kid was you?” Peter adds. Stiles nods.

 

“Yeah. Six year old me.”

 

There’s a beat of silence as neither say anything. “...and your mother?”

 

Stiles’ heart stutters for a moment as he suddenly can’t breathe. But it’s cool, he gets it under control. “She’s, um. She’s in the hospital right now. Terminal.” He tells himself that he’s already been through this. That he’s maybe been through worse, at this point. He can handle _ this _ again.

 

“Shit. I’m sorry.” a moment passes as Peter’s brain churns. “You – you’re here now, with magic. I can take you to her, we can turn around,” Peter blinkers to the next lane over. “I’ll call Talia. Maybe she can–”

 

“Peter, no. Keep driving.” Stiles says, short and curt. Peter stops his ramble, turns off the blinker. “Nothing can be done. I already told you magic doesn’t work like that. She’s too frail to handle anything, anyway.”

 

There’s another long moment of silence, before Peter replies. “How long does she have?”

 

“About a month.” Stiles says, barely above a whisper. He’s feeling a bit numb, now. The exhaustion catching back up to him from the day. He’s ready to close his eyes and wake up to a new day, to a fresh, new mind. Away from this moment.

 

Peter turns onto the forest road that takes them to the Hale House, the hub of Beacon Hills now behind them. 

 

“If… if you ever need to see her, let me know. I’ll make sure you get there.” Peter says as they pull up to the house. They hold a whole conversation in their eyes as they sit in the car, the clicking and turning of the engine winding down as the only sound between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg so I haven't written much of anything for any of my fics in months. Months! Recently, I've found myself in a transitional period of my life, so of course the muse shows up again. The last few hundred words I literally just wrote, without even rereading much of what I've already written, so... hopefully it doesn't have too much a different vibe.
> 
> I've just been listening to gay romance audiobooks lately. I recommend kidnapped by a pirate.


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